


On a Bed of Petals and Thorns

by BoxWineConfessions



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, But everything is consensual, Implied Rough Sex, M/M, Maiden Rose AU, Masturbation, intravenous drug use, panty sniffing kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9673196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: Yuri removes his own filthy uniform with shaking hands. First his boots. Then, he moved onto the smooth resin buttons at his chest. Carefully he worked the standard army issue one piece coveralls down past his chest, and then his hips. He considered himself a soldier first, and a prince second. As such, things like officer’s coats and uniforms were often abandoned for the drab one piece jump suit and standard issue long underwear.This side of the bed smells like the menthol balm he puts on his joints when they ache and the cheap rationed cigars that enlisted men are given at the beginning of each month. Otabek doesn’t smoke them himself, but many of his men do. The scent of the smoke often clings to Otabek. It’s thick and black and acrid, much like the man’s terse personality. There’s something else that lingers in the sheets too. Something heavier and undeniably human scented. Something that smells like nothing but Otabek. Otabek and sex.Although he cannot be sure if the bruises that he feels on his hips and his chest are from Otabek specifically, new ones gained in battle, or a combination of the two, he’d very much like to think that the ones that linger and sting were gifts given to him by Otabek.





	

“Commander Plisetsky, I assure you, you will be informed of any changes in Major Altin’s condition. His condition was reported as stable. What you need now is rest.”

The petty officer’s voice buzzes in his ear like a fly attracted to food left out in the open. It pulls at the tension in Yuri’s temple and pounds it deeper into his skull. The syllables are harsh and staccato like machine gun fire, and Yuri isn’t putting up with it. “Officer Temirov,” Yuri squints his eyes in concentration. Because he’s the commander now, and commanders have tact. So says the major when he’s bending him over the official strategist’s desk and fucks him stupid. Of course this kind of thing tends to happen only after Yuri’s lashed out at his own men. “The needs of the men in my squadron outweigh my own needs.” He spits out as an afterthought. “Men of honor know this.”

“Sir,” The officer’s eyes go wide as if he’s just remembered his place, that he’s speaking with the commander.

Yuri stops at the tall lacquered double doors that lead to his chambers. They’re decorated with the family crest, a crouching Siberian tiger. The insignia is skillfully crafted in a fine gold leaf inlay.

“Permission to speak sir?”

Yuri shoots him a green glass bullet stare. The man is visibly sweating beneath his dirty uniform. His cheeks are ruddy. “You have no body guard.”

Yuri grits his teeth in annoyance. He knows this of course. He did just leave Major Altin, his _knight_ in the infirmary. “Dismissed Temirov.” Yuri doesn’t even doesn’t bother to hide the venom in his voice. Now? The mere thought of anyone on the other side of these lacquered doors or just outside the window below makes his stomach churn.

Yuri enters the room and locks the door behind him. He strides to the desk and lights the oil lamp.  It fills the room with a dull orange glow. In the dimness of the light he can’t see much, but it’s enough to know that the room is in complete disarray. The papers which were neatly organized on his carved mahogany desk are scattered about, and have spilled onto the floor. His inkwell, fine crystal, is cracked in half. The pool of ink is drying in the middle of the desk.

Yuri remembers that several vases were broken too, although he can’t remember if it happened as a result of the air raid, or because of their fight.

The fact of the matter was this tension had been building between them for some time now. The fuse burnt at both ends, and ate at them with more fervor and intensity than war. Yuri made orders that were hasty and reckless. Otabek refused to obey them.

They were angry. Not in the way that Otabeki was always angry about the way the men talked about them under their breath. Not in the way that Yuri was so often angry at Otabek because Otabek felt compelled to refuse his touch more often than not.

Otabek had been angry because Yuri had revealed his latest plans to retake the stronghold at Meddu. This of course made Yuri furious in kind. He thought that of all people his major, his knight, would want to retake his home precinct. The plan was simple. Yuri’s main unit would approach from the east. Otabek’s unit, a smaller subset of Yuri’s would enact a scorched earth policy from the west. They’d meet in the middle and reclaim Meddu.

Yuri admitted that the proposed plan was brutal. However, it was needed to retake the territory. They had no choice other than to separate. Yuri needed his knight’s particular skillset in the field, not a body guard.

Yuri looks to the officer’s uniform which had been left out amidst the chaos of their shouts, and their cries, and the air raid. It hangs off a hanger in front of the wardrobe. It’s highly decorated with _almost_ all of Eurote’s highest honors. Four wound stripes across the right arm for Yuri’s various injuries in the field. Soon to be five. The silver and bronze Stalwart Medals for the offensive last year.

Otabek’s thumb and forefinger rub against a bare spot in the fabric. Soon, he’ll pin a new medal there. Foreign nationals, especially knights of the prince should never be awarded the Order of the Golden Lion.

But it’s Yuri’s archaic rule to defy.  If it hadn’t been for Otabek during the last excursion, he wouldn’t be alive to break it. As an afterthought, Yuri opens the wardrobe and stuffs the uniform inside along with his own dress uniforms. His relationship with the Major wasn’t so much a secret as it was perpetually unspoken and unacknowledged. Leaving Otabek’s dress uniform where it could be seen by staff was risky.  

Yuri removes his own filthy uniform with shaking hands. First his boots. Then, he moved onto the smooth resin buttons at his chest. Carefully he worked the standard army issue one piece coveralls down past his chest, and then his hips. He considered himself a soldier first, and a prince second. As such, things like officer’s coats and uniforms were often abandoned for the drab one piece jump suit and standard issue long underwear.

With the coveralls discarded Yuri sinks down onto the bed. It remains unmade from the last time he and Otabek had tumbled into it as a mess of naked fury and rage addled sexual energy.

Yuri rolls onto his stomach with a sigh toward the left side of the bed. He _knows_ that Otabek occupies this space beside him night after night, despite the fact that he always disappears in the early hours of the morning before the servants and his men can spot them leaving the royal chambers together.

This side of the bed smells like the menthol balm he puts on his joints when they ache and the cheap rationed cigars that enlisted men are given at the beginning of each month. Otabek doesn’t smoke them himself, but many of his men do. The scent of the smoke often clings to Otabek. It’s thick and black and acrid, much like the man’s terse personality. There’s something else that lingers in the sheets too. Something heavier and undeniably human scented. Something that smells like nothing but Otabek. Otabek and sex.

It had only been a few days ago, but it feels like lifetimes. Otabek had demanded so much from his body and had not been gentle. Although he cannot be sure if the bruises that he feels on his hips and his chest are from Otabek specifically, new ones gained in battle, or a combination of the two, he’d very much like to think that the ones that linger and sting were gifts given to him by Otabek.

He _shouldn’t_. When he’s with Otabek it’s one thing, but this is something that he should be able to control.  Yuri breaths in deeply against the sheet and ruts against the mattress. He’s trapped within the confines of his long underwear which are damp with sweat. The memory of Otabek and Otabek alone does wonders for his embattled mind and weary body.

_Long ago Otabek had once told him that he had the eyes of a soldier. In moments like this, Yuri knows what he means. Sees it reflected in Otabek’s own eyes. Otabek’s soldier eyes burned, not with duty but the kind of defiance that only rises up on the battlefield in split second fight or flight moments that meant the difference between victory or death._

_“Yuri,” Otabek growled hot into his ear. “I didn’t give up everything to fight for your country, for Eurote. I came here for you.”  Before he could argue, Otabek had all but torn off the top of his uniform and discarded his undershirt. “I find it upsetting.” Otabek bit and sucked ugly purple black marks onto his pale skin._

_The sink of Otabek’s teeth into his flesh stung, but in the best kind of way that made his dick ache and left him begging for more. “I belong to you.  Don’t send me out to die if it isn’t by your side.”_

In the present, Yuri is hard and straining against his long underwear. The scent of sheets, and the pitiful grind of his length against the mattress isn’t enough.

First, he peels off the offending garment. Then he searches underneath the sheets and the pillows for the container of petroleum jelly that Otabek had stolen from the infirmary.

Instead of the glass jar, his fingers come into contact with something much different. The fabric of the sheets in the imperial bedchamber are soft and silken. The fabric of army issue underwear is scratchy and threadbare. He’d recognize the feeling immediately. On the rare chance that Otabek gave him permission to touch and kiss and suck, he loved to grind his palm into Otabek’s clothed crotch. Loved to mouth at him until the fabric of his underwear was damp and soaked through with precome and saliva.

Yuri extracts the discarded garment from underneath the covers. Without so much as thinking about shame he crumples them into his fist and inhales deeply. The garment smells like sweat. The kind of sweat that’s generated from a combination of rigorous athleticism and tight army issue wool slacks.

It’s more pleasant than the funk that arises from being trapped in the tank together for hours at a time. It’s more subtle than when he buries his face into the thick black locks between Otabek’s thighs. It’s also far more intoxicating than the fine wines and cognacs they sip together at military balls and desperately try to forget that there’s a war going on.

_It was stiflingly hot that morning. He and Otabek were the most skilled hand to hand combat soldiers in the ranks. They’d been out training in the yard that morning showing new recruits and war grizzled veterans alike how to survive after their guns had run out of bullets, and the bayonets had been dislodged in the enemy’s body._

Because of that, the garment absolutely reeked. Yuri continues to inhale the addictive musky scent as he fumbles for the container. A hot wave of guilt churns in his stomach while the scent washes over him in a wave of warmth and lust that makes his toes curl and his pants tighten.

It’s pathetic. Because if he wanted Otabek, really wanted him, he’d stop all of this and return to the infirmary. He’d finally rid himself of the incessant petty officers and enlisted men who claimed to worry about his health and wellbeing while simultaneously undermining his authority. So, he should sit by his knight’s side until he regains consciousness.

Instead, he tears open the container with his free hand. The movements are awkward and disjointed, as he absolutely refuses to let go of the discarded garment.

_After the meeting, after they’d both finished yelling at one another, after the vases, glass dishes, and ink wells stopped flying, Otabek took him with little preparation. It stung at first, but it was nothing in comparison to the ache that Otabek had stirred within him._

_Otabek manipulated Yuri’s body like the finely tuned instruments in their tanks. Yuri’s body was lithe and athletic. Had it not been for the war, he’d still be a dancer. Otabek had him rest one extended foot on Otabek’s shoulder while he took Yuri._

_In the academy, Otabek used to find it difficult to keep it difficult to keep up with Yuri. Now he seems content with pushing Yuri’s body to its limits. The muscles in his legs burned from the stretch, from standing on his tip toes to meet Otabek’s rapid and brutal thrusts._

In the present, Yuri slips his fingers inside easily. It’s a small reminder that it’s only been a day or so since Otabek had him last. It takes seconds for Yuri to understand just how hollow it all is. His fingers don’t burn or stretch in the best kind of way that Otabek’s cock does. He can _reach_ , but no matter how hard or how rapidly he presses against that spot it’s nothing in comparison to the way that Otabek absolutely wrecks him.

Yuri turns to lay on his back. It’s still not enough.

He writhes out of the long underwear, and immediately buries his fingers back inside. He wants to touch his cock. Desperately. Yuri makes sure to put the underwear, Otabek’s underwear, against his nose so he can continue to breathe deeply while he fists his own cock in rapid and needy strokes. Yuri never thought that the title of Prince was suitable, but war has turned him into a sick and deranged fucker.

It only takes moments for Yuri to come into his own hand with a pained shout.

* * *

 

Yuri takes his time afterward. He draws a bath in the large claw foot tub in his chambers. In the tub, he traces his the bruises across his ribs. _Battle_. The raid happened quickly and they’d been traveling by bike. A shell hit nearby and they’d both been thrown.  His fingers dart to his hips. _Otabek._ Between his thighs, _Otabek._ The scrapes on his shins. _Battle._ This goes on and on until the water is cold and his skin feels rubbed raw.

Afterward, he selects a clean uniform with great care. Despite the fact that it’s well past midnight, he shouldn’t be seen down at the infirmary among enlisted men out of uniform. He sits at his vanity and brushes his long hair. Carefully, he ties it back into a braid that spills down over his shoulders and stops just at the small of his back.

Yuri closes the door to his chambers. He’s careful to hold the large door and guide it closed instead of letting it clatter shut. Yuri locks the door from outside with a skeleton key that he pockets in his uniform.

The hallway is tiled with pristine white marble. The gas lamps are dimmed, such that the shadows of the furniture. End tables, chairs, and decorative pieces are enlarged to cartoonish proportions.

Yuri leaves his chambers to the guttural gurgling sound of a man trying gasp and flail his way to surviving a slit throat.

“What the fuck are you doing out of the infirmary?” Yuri speaks over the man who gasps and writhes and gasps and tries to scream but finds no voice despite clearly having a mouth.

Yuri doesn’t have the energy to be shaken by the thwarted assassination attempt. All he can do is rush to Otabek’s side and place a hand up underneath his arm and try to hold the Major steady. His skin is cold and clammy.

Otabek’s quite a fucking sight. He’s draped in little more than a hospital gown that’s exposed in the back. The only thing that’s covered are bandages wrapped tight around his middle. He’s leaning against the wall and bracing himself on the molding, as if the thin strip of wood is the only thing that’s keeping him upright. The man crumples at Otabek’s feet near a pool of blood. A golden skeleton key shimmers from the center of the pool of blood.

Otabek holds a Bowie knife loosely in his grasp. The blade is tinged with rapidly drying brownish red blood. “If you tell me why Petty Officer Temirov was skulking around outside your room with a key,” Otabek interrupts himself to catch his breath. His voice is ragged as if they’d been out in the yard training for hours. 

 “Clearly, I’d taken him as a lover,” Yuri doesn’t try to hide the combination of rancor and exhaustion in his voice.

Yuri all but drags Otabek the scant few feet from the space in the hallway to the door. He unlocks the door and deposits Otabek onto the bed before sending for the Royal Guard.

Yuri’s eyes roll back in his head as _he’s_ questioned by the Royal Guard, like _he_ did something wrong. He didn’t try to fucking assassinate himself for fuck’s sake. “Let me get this straight,” Yuri drapes his long arms to the other side of the immense door frame. The fuckers aren’t going to straight up ask where Otabek is, but they’re also not getting a chance to pry. “You’re upset that _my_ body guard stopped an assassination attempt.” Yuri’s been up for over thirty hours at this point. There’s no sense in hiding his disdain or annoyance. “You’re dismissed.”

“Commander.” There’s the tinge of anxiety in there in their voices.

“To your posts or whatever. I don’t give a fuck.” He really doesn’t. He shouldn’t be talking to his men that way, but what are the chances of something happening twice in the same night?

Yuri watches them disappear into the corridor before he marches down to the infirmary. Otabek's wounds will need tending, and there's no way he's letting the Major out of his bedchamber until morning. 

* * *

 

“Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate you saving my life.” Yuri says as he locks the door behind him. “But you have a lot of fucking nerve.”

“It didn’t hurt,” Otabek says with the same kind of panty dropping smirk that’s gotten Yuri into trouble a countless number of times before.

“That’s because you’ve had enough morphine to drop a horse,” Yuri spits back. Yuri places the small box he’d taken from the infirmary onto the nightstand.

Yuri moves to the bed, and slips his hands into the open back of Otabek’s gown.

“Yuri,” Otabek gasps in a way that’s far too rushed to be genuine.

“Shut up Major. I’m just making sure you didn’t bleed through your bandages.”

Yuri touches them lightly and searches for patches of blood. Once satisfied, he returns his attention to the tourniquet kit he’d lifted from the infirmary. “You’re probably in a lot of pain now though right?”

Yuri damn near failed the basic first aid requirement for enlistment. He knows that the infirmary was on the other side of the compound. And there was the pesky little detail that Otabek had also killed a man tonight.  So it’s probably no small feat that he hasn’t passed out in exhaustion and agony already.

Otabek knits his brows together tightly and nods.

Yuri opens the box.  Inside there’s a rubber tourniquet, vials of morphine, and syringes. Yuri notices the way Otabek’s hands shake as he reaches for the tourniquet. Apparently, doc did give him enough to drop an army horse over the past several hours. He’s going to have taper off.

Yuri extracts the drug from the vial, and flicks the air bubbles out of the syringe. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, like he should’ve gotten a nurse. But Otabek was already here in his bed, and appearance had to be kept. It was fine now, so long as he was gone in the morning.

“You’re still really bad at this kind of thing,” Otabek says as Yuri watches the needle disappear into tan skin, then a fat purple vein.

“At least I got a vein on the first try.”

“Getting nostalgic commander?” Otabek chides. The fall of Omsk. Things kept going from bad to worse. Yuri’s regimen found themselves stuck in a rapid shift of no-man’s land. They should’ve all died. Instead, they spent three hellish days in the trenches. Yuri will never forget the sickly shade of gray that Otabek’s skin had turned. Otabek had been badly injured, and Yuri just wanted to reduce his suffering.  It haunts him sometimes, remembering how he couldn’t find a vein and injected into the muscle. Made Otabek’s agony worse.

“You and I have very different definitions of nostalgia.”

Yuri watches as the drug takes hold. Otabek unclenches his jaw, and his eyes droop slightly. Yuri removes the syringe, then the tourniquet, and then joins Otabek in bed.

 “Do you ever regret it Otabek?” The bond between noble and night was sacred and required complete allegiance. Otabek doesn’t talk about their lives before the war often, but he knows that Otabek was somewhat of a hero in Meddu. Very well liked, and very well respected.

Yuri had stolen him away.

So surely, he must hate Yuri by now.

Otabek reaches for Yuri’s hand. His movements are sluggish and drug addled. “Sometimes you make me impossibly angry.” It rolls off of Otabek’s tongue in a pained tone. Like it’s some kind of confession. However, Yuri already knew this.  “Do you remember, the academy? How you had such a hard time passing first aid?” Yuri hasn’t heard Otabek laugh in years. There’s something there in the edges of his voice though. Something soft and vulnerable.

“Now who is being nostalgic?” Yuri asks. “I remember helping a senior cadet break into the practice range to calibrate his tank before exams.” There’s a reason that Otabek is the driver and Yuri is the gunner. 

“I wish you’d hold your life in higher esteem,” Otabek says. Yuri’s used to it by now. The long and winding way that Otabek weaves in and out of multiple conversations spread across hours. His men believe that Otabek doesn’t have much to say. They’re wrong, and very bad at listening. “I wish you’d let me protect you, as I have vowed to do.” Otabek rubs slow circles onto Yuri’s palm with his thumb. It’s difficult to believe that Otabek could shift so seamlessly between rough and demanding and tender.

Yuri wants to tell him that despite everything, he loves him. Always has, and still does.

War doesn’t make these things so simple.

He dims the lamp, and returns to bed.

“Good night Major Altin.”

“Good night Commander Plisetsky.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know if you're feeling this AU. It's something I've wanted to do for awhile, but writing it actually gave me a hard time.


End file.
